Four Times Rude Pulls the Trigger and One Time he Doesn't
by nolifeinabox
Summary: Rude grows up, thinks about life, death, and the sea.


1. The day Rude turns seven, his father wakes him up before the sun. He keeps so, so quiet walking down the stairs because he knows his mother will wake up, and he knows she'll be angry. She doesn't think he's old enough yet, he heard them when he came down for a glass of water last night. But his father is taking him hunting.

Hunting is where his father goes for a week or two at a time each season. He brings back turkey in spring, and deer in the fall. They eat deer all winter. When his father first comes home, his mother cooks the deer with deer gravy and salty greens, and all the men sit around the table, and Rude and his siblings play upstairs.

"Turning seven already. You're a little man now alright. Time you learned to use a gun."

It's cold in the woods, and Rude is bored, and sleepy. He doesn't like his orange vest; it's too big, and it itches, and it smells like grease and gunpowder. The whole woods are bright and orange, he wants to smell rain and leaves, splash in the puddles off the trail, and dig for worms. But his father says be still. So Rude is still. They sit at the short watch tower for hours, the only sounds are birds and sometimes wind, the only movement is their own billowing breath, and coffee passed between them in a thermos. It's mostly milk and sugar.

Two birds cry startled and fling themselves into the air, and Rude's father is suddenly all tension and focus, but Rude does not see what he see's or hear what he hears. The rifle's bark deafens.

This is not the first time he's seen an animal dead or dying, but mostly he's seen chickens, and the stag is much bigger, and thrashes, tongue lolling and eyes wild, billowing the same steam as he is, into the autumn chill. A single, precise thrust of his father's hunting knife stops it. Even though he's asked, Rude will not say that yes, he is afraid.

One deer is all that's been planned for this trip. His father just wants to show him where he goes, and they have lunch leaning against the car in the midday sun. His mother must have made the sandwiches.

"Time you learned to use a gun."

His father smiles with his voice and his eyes as he shows him how to load the rifle, how to switch the safety, how to steady it against a shoulder. He aims for his fathers old, rusted lunch pale, set on a stump yards away. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He pulls the trigger.

It knocks him on his ass. But the lunch pail has been knocked to the ground, the upper left corner caved in.

2.  
Rude is twelve, almost thirteen, and it's easy enough to chase away foxes, coyotes, even the odd smaller monsters that sometimes wander onto the farm. A scatter of buckshot in the air, in the general direction of the intruder, you don't even have to hit anything to send most creatures running. It keeps the sheep and the two cows safe.

Rude knows the animals are just business. Food and trade, not pets. He doesn't care, he adores them anyway. All of them. He is first one up in the morning, because the chickens are so happy to see him bringing grain. All of the sheep have names. After cleaning the cow pens, he likes to lay in the hay. They chew grass together, the cows their bales and bales of food, Rude his one long strand of wheat, and watch the sky. They're sweet animals. Dumb as anything, but personable just the same.

In the summers they visit his mothers brother in Junon. He has a boat, and he takes each child out one by one during sunrise, and teaches them how to thread a line, and wait for fish. Rude guts fish, cleans crabs, and shucks razor clams. The sun shines bright white off the water, and salt sprays his face while his uncle explains that there isn't much in them to fear or hurt anyway. This makes sense to Rude. Still, making it clean and quick seems just respectful. When he grows up he will think that mercy tastes like saltwater, and smells like brine.

They eat what they've killed around a campfire. The children try to frighten and outdo each other with stories. The adults try to teach them the stars.

His father calls him to the pasture one morning. Rude has been excited because it's lamb season, and his favorite sheep, Molly, is meant to give birth. She's been ready to burst for days. What he finds though is a bleating, bloody mess, and his father grim-faced. With a hand on his shoulder he explains that Molly is dieing. The lamb had faced the wrong way in the womb. It strangled on it's own chord and the womb has ruptured. The vet says that there's nothing to be done, and they couldn't afford the euthanasia. His father is right when he says he thought Rude might want to say goodbye. Still, his face is all surprise when Rude volunteers to put her down. He is proud that his son understands.

Rude is shaking. Molly, he is sure, does not understand. But he takes his fathers rifle and pulls the trigger. Quick, clean.

He cries for hours.

He is surprised when his father says nothing about it, just holds an arm around his shoulder until he's done. He desperately misses the sea.

3.  
This woman is guilty. At least, as far as the Turks know, and there is very little that they don't know. There is half a year of investigation to display the blood on her hands. Not to mention millions of gil worth of heroin and dirty mako in this very building. Not to mention the two drug mules he's seen her kill in her attempts to escape during this very hit. Their lives gone, for no other purpose than that their bodies may be barriers to the Turks progress. She has nowhere to go now though. They don't have her yet, and it will take some time to break into the panic room, but she's injured and cornered. Some would say this makes her dangerous. To Rude, it just makes her dead. Inches of reinforced steel, or millimeters of cardboard, fire and explosive will undo both. It's only a matter of degree.

Rude is twenty, and this is his first year with the Turks. Beside him, the senior Turk assigned to him holds a wadded up roll of dirty fabric to the place in his shoulder where the target thrust a letter opener, and twisted. It was low enough to probably severe the cephalic vein, but thankfully, spare the radial collateral and ulnar arteries. Still, the amount of blood his partner is losing isn't insignificant.

His partner is a middle aged man, with sharp, sandy hair and shoulders even broader than Rude's own. He is rough, merciless man and there is no affection between them. Still, he specializes in explosives, a trade he has been teaching Rude, and to which Rude takes like a thief to stealing. He likes the precision. Right now, the man is grinning through the pain at the chemical line eating around the lock pad, and nodding his approval. The air flashes with sparks, and the reek of burning metal. To Rude, this smells something like justice. It takes twenty minutes, but they have the time. The Target isn't going anywhere.

She begs. He thought she might. She bargains, offers anything she can think of, and a few things that surprise him. It doesn't keep the gun from her head. Quick and clean, which is more than she'd given her own people. The blood sprays in a predictable pattern, skull fragments and brain matter too. A close shot keeps the spatter contained, and ensures an instant death. His senior applauds his efficiency, but Rude isn't entirely sure this outcome balances out. Nonetheless, the world is a better place with one less un-managed drug ring.

4.  
This man is innocent. At least, as far as the Turks know, and there is very little that they don't know. His only crimes were being at the wrong bank at the wrong time, and happening to be standing within arms reach when the Eco-terrorists decided they needed a hostage. That couldn't be allowed, or they might get it in their heads to take more in the future. He shoots the man right in the face without the slightest hesitation, the AVALANCHE member that grabbed him too. They both crumple, just two more dead creatures.

Rude has been with the Turks three years now, and has been given his own rookie. This redheaded loudmouth who needs to learn his place. But, to the rookie's credit, his reaction times are almost non-existant, and he is in amongst the remaining targets, swing and shouting and sparking, almost before the bodies hit the ground. Any actual threat is neutralized in under thirty seconds. Within a minute, they have two captives who are willing to talk.

On the ride back to headquarters, the captives shoved into the trunk, bound and blindfolded, Rude tries to explain to the rookie that this death is necessary, that when they get back one member of AVALANCHE will be allowed to escape with the knowledge that when it comes to hostages Shinra simply does not care, that this will protect any civilians they may think of using. The rookie just shrugs.

"Whatever gets you to sleep at night man, I honestly couldn't care less. We did the job, yo. Hell we came out two steps ahead!"  
Rude isn't entirely sure who he's trying to reassure. Killing doesn't bother him, anymore. Humans are just another kind of animal.

5.  
Reno doesn't believe in stoicism under torture, so neither does Elena. They both scream, and scream, and cry, because that makes it hurts less. They both know that neither of them will crack, and Rude knows it too. But he wishes they wouldn't. Scream. It hurts, like he can't even breathe. They hurt so much more than anything their captures could do to him directly.

Reno is the first one to work his way out of bondage. He can barely stand, barely see at this juncture, Rude sees in his face, but he picks Rude and Elena's cuffs anyhow. Once assured of their vitality, he promptly gives up consciousness. Rude does not leave a single person dead as he drags his comrades out. Sometimes, quick and clean doesn't balance out. He very calmly, and clearly explains to the leader of this little party, what a stomach wound does to someone, that death will take about fifteen minutes to come to him, and the similarities between digestive acid, and rattlesnake venom. Every one of them begged for death, but this man in particular, a sniveling coward, deserves messy and painful. Besides, he thinks, they're a long, long way from the sea.


End file.
